Oasis, implying deserts | Dunes of pale sand stretch away, surrounding us to no escape | If it is the void we must deal with, then the architecture of the void | is what we must use | to build | Sipping bitter coffee from tiny cups | under a pavilion | putting an edge to the sky, the edge ourselves, the sky not requiring | an edge at all | The night, inferred from stars, very cold, very wild | The heat from our fire, as we await | the arrival of the nomads | wakes | across the desert | in another fire | Feel?

And also, the silence has an architecture, a system of building | into and out from | Dwelling, or the hope of dwelling, attends the impulse | dwelling even in devastation, such devastation as inheres | within the casual caress of two mouths | into a kiss, or two eyes | glancing in a new direction | Glaciers, panting | The stars, very cold, very wild | shining | also used for distance | The bitterness | is living | The nomads, although they understand | the nature of shelters | in the oasis | still smile when they arrive | and sleep | we have incubated for dry hours | hatches in the sound of many pouring waters